By the tenth spanking, Harlow is wet down her thighs, and I’m not sure I’ve ever been harder. Her hand has disappeared between her legs, fingers slipping over the slick skin.

“You do like it,” I say. “Feel that.” I lean forward, touch where she’s working herself over. My fingers push in alongside hers and fuck. I need a condom right now.

Straightening, I reach for the box I’d hastily tossed into the dresser drawer. Harlow moves to her back and watches, eyes fixed to where I slide the condom down and over my dick.

I climb over her, lifting her arms above her head, helping her reach for the bed frame. “Keep them here, okay?”

She nods, and I see the way she tightens her grip, knuckles turning white with the effort.

I press the head of my cock against her, moving it back and forth before beginning to push in. “Think you can be quiet?” I ask, gauging her expression as I continue to move. “Oliver could come home anytime. You need to be quiet. Okay?”

She looks down the length of her body, where my palm slides over her skin, and nods.

I reach for the pillow next to her head and lift her hips to position it just beneath her ass. “That’s right,” I say, pressing deeper and deeper, watching as I disappear entirely inside her.

Her teeth bite into her bottom lip and she moans around it. I shush her gently. “Look so good like this,” I tell her, watching her breasts bounce with each snap of my hips. I place my hand on her sternum to hold her down, and admire the color of my skin against hers, tan and rough against golden softness. A rough engine sounds outside and I recognize Oliver’s car, hear it move up the street and pull into the driveway.

Harlow’s little gasps are still too loud, and so I reach near her hip for her panties, ball them up in my fist, and, after I kiss her on the lips, I stuff them into her mouth.

Her eyes close like she’s grateful, and she moans around it—and it’s enough that I nearly come.

“I said quiet, Ginger Snap.” I spread her legs even more. I tilt her hips in a way that my pelvis doesn’t rub against her clit while I fuck her.

And again, she moans, a deep, desperate sound that makes me fuck into her harder, wanting to make her do it again.

“You definitely like this,” I whisper into her ear. “I bet you think I won’t be able to stop thinking about this later, how wet you’re getting my cock.” I suck along her neck, careful to leave the skin red, but not marked. “Can you tell I like it, too? You nearly made me come before I was good and ready.”

She groans around the fabric and presses her knees to my waist, using the leverage to bring me closer, harder.

“I wonder if you’ll get wetter?” I say. “Should we see if I can make you wetter when you come?”

She nods urgently.

I can hear Oliver outside, laughing and shouting something over to a neighbor. I hitch Harlow’s leg up higher and reach down, smacking her ass again. She cries out, clenching around me. Her skin is flushed, her nipples hard and goose bumps spread along her skin.

“He’ll be inside any second. Do you think you can be quiet? I can make it so good for you if you can.”

She nods and I fuck her harder, my arms shaking, neck corded and tense as I hold myself back. I see the moment it happens: Harlow’s eyes widen before they close again, a tear slipping down her cheek as she struggles not to make a noise.

It’s enough to send me spiraling after her. I lean down, nearly bending her in half with my thrusts—just one more time before I’m coming and have to muffle my sounds against her skin.

When I can move, when my heart doesn’t feel like it might burst out of my chest, I push up, slipping out of her carefully before tying off the condom. I take her in my arms, kissing her fingers, her wrists, the corners of her mouth.

“You did so good.” I press my lips to her shoulder, drag my nose up her neck, and growl in her ear. “You did so fucking good, sweet girl.”

Chapter FIVE

Harlow

I DON’T REALLY KNOW how I would feel three days after having both of my breasts removed, but given what an important part of my body they are, I can imagine I’d be doing the exact same thing my mother has done since Monday: sleep, and cry.

And there is nothing, literally nothing any of us can do to make her feel better. Mom has never been particularly vain, but her career was obviously dependent on her body. So even though at forty-five she would be unlikely to get a bikini-dependent film role, anyway, and the newsmagazines are highlighting her bravery and strength, she really just hates no longer having what was admittedly an awesome pair of boobs. Plus—and Mom is tougher than nails—I can tell how painful her recovery from surgery is.

She’s released from the hospital on Wednesday morning, and Dad, Bellamy, and I spend most of the day sitting in bed with her, watching reruns of Law & Order while she sleeps. By Thursday afternoon, we’re all restless, unshowered, and picking at each other.

I now know what would go down if the four of us were ever trapped together in a bomb shelter: murder. The incessant chirping of Bellamy’s cell phone is making Dad homicidal. Bellamy keeps talking about how hot the room is. And Mom tells me, “If you offer me food one more time I’m going to throw this remote at your head. Sorry, sweetie.”

For the family that never really fights, we sure are a testy bunch.

Finally, Dad pulls us both aside in the hall. “Girls, I love you,” he says, laying a hand on each of our shoulders. “But please get out of my house. Just go get back to your lives for a couple of days. I’ll call you with any updates.”

The problem is it’s not really that easy. I detest the morbid, niggling sense I have after talking to Finn at lunch on Tuesday that my mother is going to die. I can’t talk about it with anyone, and even if I could, giving voice to it would only make me feel like I was validating the possibility or—worse—turning it into reality, somehow. I have too much free time to think; my part-time job isn’t nearly absorbing enough, I can only run or spend so many hours at the beach, and my friends have packed schedules from morning to night. All of them, that is, except Finn.

Once Bellamy has driven away, I stand on my parents’ driveway and forcibly pull myself together. It feels literal: Pick up the pieces and put them where they belong. Pull the spine straight. Tie my still-wet hair back in a messy bun. Smooth my hands down the rumpled front of my T-shirt and jeans. Slap on a smile.

I’m making everyone join me at Fred’s, and I won’t take no for an answer.